


Storm Signals

by ArgentNoelle



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman (Movies - Nolan), Batman - All Media Types, Batman: The Animated Series
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Alley fight, Arkham Asylum, Arkham Asylum (place), Atmospheric, Canon-Typical Violence, Dreams and Nightmares, First Dates, Gordon cameo, Groundhog Day, Gun Violence, Harley cameo, Late Night Conversations, M/M, Nightmares, Past Violence, Storms, Strange Things Happen, Temporary Amnesia, Temporary Character Death, Therapist Harley, Weird Fluff, Weird Plot Shit, bruce visits his parents' grave, harleen quinzel/harley quinn, therapy visit in Arkham
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-16
Updated: 2016-05-16
Packaged: 2018-06-08 21:43:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6874810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArgentNoelle/pseuds/ArgentNoelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Bruce wakes, it is to an unremembered nightmare as Alfred pulls the curtain, and a storm is brewing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Storm Signals

**Author's Note:**

> you can read here an awesome translation into Russian, by canon police: https://ficbook.net/readfic/4787425

There’s a storm coming. It hovers over Gotham, grim and brooding, with far-off hints of thunder. Everything is hot and sticky, has been for days. And Bruce Wayne wakes up late, in the darkness of a room with drapes pulled shut, the deep purple sheets twisted around his legs. He’s had a dream, a nightmare. He can’t remember what it is, but it doesn’t surprise him. Most nights, his dreams are disturbing. He almost welcomes the pure fear of the true nightmare, over the lingering dread of those that are less detached from reality, those whose horrors are not so easily banished in the light of day.

“Are you all right, Master Bruce?” Alfred asks, drawing the curtains to let in what sullen illumination comes through the clouds, shadowless and sweltering.

“Fine—just a nightmare.”

Last night, the Joker escaped from Arkham again, and Bruce wonders what he is doing, when he will find him. Lately, every day seems exactly the same.

He catches up with the madman in an alley far from the streets, and his words don’t cut the way they usually do. Batman knows them all. The motions of the dance, usually a game of wits as much of body, a constant appraisal, is dulled by rote. He catches punches before they are swung, parries his verbal volleys with mindless answers and sees in the Joker’s eyes something like confusion.

The drive back to Arkham is made in silence.

When Bruce wakes, it is to an unremembered nightmare as Alfred pulls the curtain, and a storm is brewing. There’s something fretful underneath his skin, a restlessness he can’t seem to throw; but perhaps it’s only the tension that comes from knowing the Joker escaped from Arkham last night. Outside the window, there are more shadows than sun.

“Are you all right, Master Bruce?” Alfred asks, and Bruce answers distractedly, already running through his head how to counteract the clown’s possible plans.

“Fine—just a nightmare.”

He catches the Joker in an alley, and his frustration bleeds into their fight, watching blood and purple bruises form and taking his own in turn. Lately, every day seems exactly the same; even the man who prides himself on his unpredictability being nothing that Bruce can’t forecast. Maybe it’s the storm. The way the sky lights with the far-off flashes and rumbles of thunder, it’s sure to break soon.

Perhaps tomorrow.

Driving to Arkham, meeting with the police and following other leads, other crimes (for there are still other crimes) all of it passes, but nothing seems to change.

He wakes up from a nightmare, and a storm is brewing outside.

The crack of bone is as perfectly expected as though it has been timed. Joker spits out a mouthful of blood and looks up at him.

“C’mon, Bats,” he says, “What’s eating you?”

“Nothing.” He continues to slam the Joker’s head against the wall, but he’s not fighting back anymore. Batman stills, waits. It’s different.

“Sure,” Joker says.

“Your plans are getting sloppy. It was the same as last time.”

The Joker raises an eyebrow, makes a face of exaggerated hurt. “You wound me. You know I don’t like to re-use material. I spent a whole month thinking up this plan.”

“We fought yesterday.”

Joker throws back his head and laughs. It’s a long, awkward aspect, veering crazily up and down, with an edge to it that hints at something only seen in his eyes.

“I was in Arkham yesterday, remember? Big television announcements all over the city? I only escaped last night.”

“But I remember—” It’s true. Bruce stumbles back. The Joker had escaped last night, yet just as clearly he can remember the fight in the alley and the frustrated anger and the confusion in his eyes as they knew something was wrong. The long, silent ride back to the Asylum. And the nightmare.

Lately, every day was exactly the same.

He turns his back, leaving it unguarded, not even caring that the Joker could take him down in an instant. He walks to the edge of the alley with heavy steps, ignoring the Joker calling after him.

“Aren’t you even going to lock me up?”

He stops for a moment, acknowledging the words but not turning his head. “Tomorrow,” Bruce says. It’s a flat and strangely echoless sound.

He goes out as Bruce Wayne that night, not Batman, for the first time since he realized his dream of vengeance. Buys all the alcohol his money can buy, drinking until the world is very much un-real and his reflexes are dulled. When the shooter comes in, he doesn’t duck in time. There’s a far-away sort of pain in his gut but his head is fuzzy and he’s sitting on the floor. Blood is pouring out onto his hands and the sound of the gunshots echo and the screams are sharp and the man stands before him. For a moment he sees his memory, the other man and the falling pearls, the screams that he can never forget pouring into his mind as his blood pours out of his body.

Is this the end? He wonders.

Bruce Wayne wakes up from a nightmare and the room is dark but outside, a storm is coming.

* * *

He’s fighting. It was easy to find the Joker; not because he’d followed leads, gotten calls, evidence, but because he knew, somehow, what would happen. It’s a disconcerting thought, and he tries to pound it out of his head as he beats the Joker. There’s a crack of bone and it’s entirely expected. The fight has rhythm, but not like their normal ones. There’s a terror in the intensity, but it is suppressed. The storm overhead has not broken, and the air is hot and still.

Bruce sees blood as the Joker lies against the wall and remembers a man with a gun and the hole in his own body, and he stops.

The Joker staggers up, a grin on his face as he dives at Bruce, sending him to the ground. “Shouldn’t have hesitated like that,” he gasps, and wraps his fingers around Bruce’s throat.

“I died last night.”

The Joker frowns. “What?”

“I died last night. Yesterday, but it was today. You escaped from Arkham and we fought right here but I left. It’s different. You feel it, don’t you? The storm hasn’t broken for how many days, because there is no tomorrow. It’s just today, again and again.”

The Joker stares at him with a disbelief conflicted with some subconscious agreement. “You know, I’m not one to say this,” he comments, “but you need help.”

Batman drives him to Arkham. They enter the gates, Joker leading the way with a hand on his arm and a smile on his face, playing up the gleeful clown, drawing the attention as they walk in, past the guards and the doctors all stunned and unsure of how to react.

“Don’t worry,” Joker says. “He’s with me.”

They go to his psychiatrist’s office. Her nameplate says _Harleen Quinzel_ , (“but call her Harley,” Joker said. “She likes that better”) and unlike everyone else, she takes in the situation with equanimity, inviting Batman onto the couch. He sits, awkwardly, and Joker sits beside him.

“Lately,” he begins, “Every day seems exactly the same. I thought it was… déjà-vu or something. I just knew I felt unsettled, restless. Having nightmares I couldn’t remember. There’s a storm waiting outside every day, but it never breaks. The beginning of the day is always the same, up until a point. But I started to remember. There’s no tomorrow. I’m stuck in the same day, and I don’t know how to get out.”

“Can you remember when this started?” Harleen asks, and he shakes his head. She writes something on a piece of paper before her and he wonders what she’s writing. _Batman finally cracked, knew it was only a matter of time_?

“All right,” she says. “Let’s say it’s real. What have you tried so far, to get out?”

“I died.”

Their eyes meet, and he doesn’t know what he sees in them, but there’s a silence, for a moment.

“Is that usually your first recourse in situations like these?” she asks.

Batman shrugs, feeling self-conscious, almost judged. Strangely, it is the first time he felt awkward in her presence, even sitting in full-costume and with such an unofficial appointment, the madman responsible for it all sitting next to him without speaking but a hand still on his arm as though he means to comfort him.

“It always works in dreams.”

She smiles, almost sadly. “Have you tried to remember the nightmares?”

“Yes, a few times. I can’t.”

The Joker speaks up. “Maybe you could catch up to tomorrow if you stayed awake long enough.”

“It’s an idea,” Harleen says.

She leads them to Solitary and Joker goes in with him. “To make sure you don’t fall asleep,” he says. The sound of the door shutting behind them is dull, the click unaccountably loud. The walls are high, and through the barred window the light falls in a partitioned square on the bare floor.

There’s silence for a while, as the sun finally sets, and the night grows darker.

“I’ll stay with you till tomorrow,” Joker says. “If you stay awake, I’m sure you’ll be able to catch it.”

“Maybe.” Bruce looks at the floor. Everything is surreal. He can’t even imagine that he’s sitting here in Arkham, with his worst enemy. He recognizes it vaguely from when he was dosed with Scarecrow’s toxin, but that was an annoyance. This feels… heavier, and he doesn’t hold the same faith in Joker’s ideas that the clown does.

“Well, think of it like this,” Joker continues. “If tomorrow doesn’t come… you can do whatever you want! Like me!”

“I would never do the kinds of things you do,” Batman counters, lifting his head to meet the Joker’s eyes, his old assurance reasserting itself for a moment.

But the Joker only stares at him, suddenly serious. “Wouldn’t you?” he asked. “Really? If nothing mattered?”

* * *

“Well, they say it’s always darkest before the dawn, so we should be due some sun any minute now,” Joker says.

It can’t be any later than midnight.

But Bruce has stayed awake nights before; it’s not his body that is tired. The idea of catching up to tomorrow by staying awake… it’s mad. He’s not sure what he’ll do if it works, but more than that he fears what will happen if it doesn’t. With such thoughts, the minutes drag by.

He wakes up under deep purple sheets in a dark room, but when Alfred pulls the curtains, a storm is in the air, and it hasn’t yet broken.

“Did you sleep well, Master Bruce?” he asks, and Bruce frowns, trying to chase the remnants of the dream.

“I think so,” he says, getting out of bed.

The Joker has broken out of Arkham last night, and Bruce searches for him, finally catching up in an alley. But before he can start the fight, the sight of the man stops him in his tracks.

He remembers last time. He remembers yesterday, and the lack of one.

He can’t bring himself to fight.

“Well?” Joker asks. “What are you waiting for? An audience?”

“No,” Bruce says. “Not today. I just don’t want to fight today.”

Joker pauses, uncertain, but collects himself. “You don’t seem very mad. Was I not evil enough? What if I went on a shooting spree, hm? Killed some innocent civilians? Threatened one of your friends? I don’t think I’ve terrorized Gordon lately.”

“Do whatever you want,” Bruce answers. “I won’t stop you.”

“All-right,” Joker says. He saunters out of the alley. Batman follows. Joker takes out a gun, aiming at people’s heads, goes as though to pull the trigger, then stops, shaking his head. Batman does nothing.

He pulls the trigger; straight through a tall hat. “Boom! Gotcha!” he cries, and the victim, startled, puts their hands up, looking around, sees the Joker, and screams.

Pandemonium reigns. Joker shoots the hats of people’s heads, keeping count, and Batman does nothing. And then, he tilts his wrist just a bit lower, and shoots a hole through someone’s head. Blood sprays the air, the screams re-doubled, and Batman does nothing.

* * *

They were taken in by the police later that day. Joker had killed 64 people, first with a gun and then, when the clip had emptied, with his razor-edged playing cards. Batman was beside him the whole time. He had done nothing, except to trip up one of the people fleeing from the scene. Joker stopped in front of the downed man and stared at the indecipherable face behind Batman’s mask.

He didn’t laugh when he killed the man, just watched Batman’s face. But he had no reaction.

Gordon went in to Batman’s cell alone.

“Why?” he asked. His voice was broken.

Batman didn’t answer.

“You know, I trusted you. You were my friend.”

There was blood on Bruce’s suit still. There hadn’t been anything to wipe it off with and it had dried dark. He lowered his eyes.

Gordon walked to the door, holding it open for one moment behind him. Then he spoke. “I hope you rot in hell,” he said.

The door shut behind him.

“I’m already there.”

When Bruce woke up, his heart was pounding and his hands were sweating… but what scared him, was that whatever vision he had emerged from hadn’t been a nightmare.

He did not want to remember his dream.

The storm still had not broken when he followed Joker’s trail, catching up to him in the alley. The memories came back as he stared at Joker’s unknowing face. _Crack_. Each punch was satisfyingly off-time. Unexpected. He fought with a certain fury the Joker had never seen. He fought not to subdue.

The laughter started up, an accompaniment to the fighting and the fury, an escalation they had never before known.

“You’re really going to do it,” Joker said. “You’re really going to kill me.”

The body on the ground seemed so much smaller than the man had been in life. It was a cliché, yet it was true. He seemed very much ordinary, and strangely un-triumphant. There was no catharsis in the act. Bruce felt sick, poisoned.

He went back to the Manor, told Alfred he hadn’t found the Joker after all. He took off his suit.

Under the livid sky, he visited his parents’ graves.

For some time he couldn’t speak; couldn’t face the words carved into the stones before him, as though the faces of his parents would see through him and know his shame.

“Ever since you’ve died, the thought of tomorrow has sustained me,” Bruce said haltingly. “That I could make some kind of a difference, change something, somewhere, for a boy in the future. Maybe not for me, maybe not soon… but eventually. Someday. To… to have a purpose; to know I could make a difference, change something for the better. But now…” he crouched down, face still low and hidden to hide the tears that had begun to fall, but still the storm, waiting, dark, above, did not break; there was only the occasional far-off flashes of lightning. “There is no tomorrow, and there might never be again. …I don’t know what to do.”

* * *

Bruce wakes from dreams of darkness to a storm that has not broken. Going through the motions of the day, he wonders why he feels so numb.

It is only when he finds the alley and the Joker that he remembers once again, and the thought of continuing as though nothing has happened (but nothing _has_ happened) sours his throat.

“I’m sorry,” he says. And the Joker looks at him with an astonishment Bruce has never seen on his face.

“Sorry? What do you mean?”

“I killed you yesterday. I know it’s crazy, and you don’t have to believe me.”

“I believe you,” Joker says.

They stand awkwardly before each other. Bruce isn’t sure what to do, where to go from here. Starting a fight doesn’t seem an option. Not now.

They go to a restaurant. The patrons stare, and the tables around them stay mysteriously deserted.

“Is this a date?” Joker asks.

“Do you want it to be?” Batman says.

When they leave, the sun is down, and the streetlamps are on, casting shadows beyond their boundaries.

“You’re acting very strangely,” Joker says, taking a grenade out of his pocket. He throws it into the air, catches it, and pulls out the pin.

They wait for the explosion.

“I guess it _was_ a trick one,” Joker says, nudging it. “Well, there’s always the old-fashioned way.” He pulls a knife from his pocket, brings it up to Bruce’s lips. “What about I give you a smile to match mine, hmm?”

“Go ahead,” Batman says.

The Joker frowns. “You shouldn’t say things you don’t mean.”

“I’m not,” Batman replies. “Nothing is going to stay. It doesn’t matter.”

The Joker presses the knife through flesh and Bruce feels the stab of pain and the blood running down and then Joker stops, and looks at him. Slowly, he pulls out the knife.

“There’s blood on your face,” he says.

“Yes.”

“You should wipe it off.”

“I don’t have a handkerchief.”

Joker giggles. “This is the oddest day. I wonder if I’m going crazy?”

“You’re already crazy,” Bruce says. Joker shrugs. He leans forward, and licks the blood that has started dripping down Bruce’s face. Somehow, it turns into a very strange kiss, full of not-quite passion, not-quite anger.

“So,” Joker says. “I think you owe me an explanation for all this.”

“Tomorrow isn’t going to come,” Bruce explains. “The storm still hasn’t broken. It never does. Haven’t you noticed?”

Joker nods. Then he laughs. “I bet you say that to all the girls.”

They walk through the city. In the darkness, they are hardly noticed, staying out of the streetlights; only a man in a dark coat and a shadow trailing after him. When they stop it is at a hotel. The Joker orders a room, and the frightened man at the desk gives them his best suite, and a pack of medical gauze. Bruce patches up the cut on his face and then they sit in silence on the bed, eyes meeting, unreadable and familiar. Bruce’s hands are uncovered, and when Joker reaches forward their palms brush, become entangled. Bruce lets it be; reaches out to close the gesture, the tilt of their bodies.

Finally Joker breaks off, staring out the window.

“I don’t think you were right about the storm,” he says. “Look—it’s raining now.”

It is.

“It would be a funny thing, if this was the day tomorrow came, wouldn’t it?” he asks. “But I don’t think I’d regret it.”

Bruce stirs. “Neither do I.”

“What do we do now then? Wait and see what happens?”

“I guess so.”

They stare out into the rain and the night.


End file.
